# Building complex data-driven websites that actually work worth a fucking damn

If it’s fucked, I can help you de-fuck it. 15 years experience with all kinds of commerce, content management and CRM systems and all types and manners of fucked up shit. I do Drupal, Ubercart, CiviCRM, php, perl, css, xhtml, apache, linux, Joomla, Word Press, Movable Type, Zen Cart…and that’s just the tip of the fucking iceberg. I even fucking live on Capitol Hill.

I’m not the cheapest guy out there, but chances are I can de-fuck your shit pretty quickly. And remember: The #1 leading cause of a fucked up website is that it was built by some fucking idiot who had no idea how to make anything fucking work. Remember that guy? He was cheap, and his shit didn’t work. So, fuck that fuck. Drop me a line and let’s start de-fucking your fucked up shit today! Or just pick up the fucking phone and call ### ### #### and we’ll talk shit.

Fuck yeah we will.

Peace, bitches.

PS: No, this is not a fucking joke. Yes, I am a real fucking person. Send a fucking email to ###@###### for fuck’s sake and tell me about your fucked up technology problems.

Well, I must say, for sheer professionalism, it’ll be tough to beat this fuckin’ guy. Based on his extensive fucking listing of the fucking problems people have with their fucking websites, he’s obviously some kind of fucking expert. I’m sure he’ll have a bunch of fucking brilliant ideas for improving your fucking website.

Especially if you happen to be Quentin Tarantino. Still, I can’t help but worry about what, for example, the Sesame Street website might look like after he got his hands on it:

“Hey there, all you little fucks. Are you ready to fucking count to three?”

I am torn by this ad — the fact that it is organized, logical, makes references to actually useful skills and is articulate makes it almost not a disaster. The swearing like a drunken sailor on the other hand makes me wonder if he is just trying to fix specific types of websites, like badly designed porn sites

We always say “swear like Mom” since she has a very … colorful vocabulary. With the introduction of my nieces and nephew she has toned it down a bit, but they know not to use any of “Grandma’s driving words”.

Stevedore is an alliteration of estibadores–“stuffer” in spanish (and close in portugeuse).

Labor designation/distinction in that, in days of old, stevedores were allowed onboard ships; longshoremen only the dockside. A division of labor which can make sense in some foreign ports.

Used to be an aspect of “tramp” steaming, too. Where a ship would have several cargoes; some simply generic, that were taken to various ports in turn. Such a ship might hire “supercargo” stevedores, who could be trusted aboard the ship. Often was a barter service, too–broke but needed to get to the next port (or the second or third), a person could ship out as supercargo. Often handy if one wished to travel without a great deal of paperwork, too (and could tolerate the pace of a “slow boat”).

Is anyone else hearing F. Lee Ermey as his Full Metal Jacket DS character reading this?

Observation for Sparks: Just because that’s likely the most commonly-shouted word when dealing with the frustrating circumstances you profess to fix doesn’t mean it needs to be reiterated throughout the ad … because if you fix my fucking shit, I hope to be calling it that a lot less.

“Perhaps one of the most interesting words
in the English language today, is the word FUCK.
Out of all of the English words which begin with the letter F, FUCK is the only word referred to as the “F” word. It’s the one magical word.
FUCK as most words in the English language,
is derived from German,
the word “frucken”, which means to strike.
In English, FUCK falls into many grammatical categories.

As a transitive verb, for instance.
John FUCKED Shirley.
As an intransitive verb, Shirley FUCKS.
It’s meaning’s not always sexual;
it can be used as an adjective, such as
John’s doing all the FUCKING work.
As part of an adverb,
Shirley talks too FUCKING much.
As an adverb enhancing an adjective,
Shirley is FUCKING beautiful.
As a noun, I don’t give a FUCK.
As part of a word abso-FUCKING-lutely,
or in-FUCKING-credible.
And, as almost every word in the sentence,
FUCK the FUCKING FUCKERS.

As you must realize,
there aren’t too many words
with the versatility of FUCK.
As in these examples describing situations
such as fraud:
I got FUCKED at the used car lot.
Dismay: Aw FUCK it.
Trouble: I guess I’m really FUCKED now.
Aggression: Don’t FUCK with me buddy.
Difficulty: I don’t understand this FUCKING question.
Inquiry: Who the FUCK was that?
Dissatisfaction: I don’t like what the FUCK is going on here.
Incompetence He’s a FUCK-off.
Dismissal: Why don’t you go outside and play hide-and-go-FUCK yourself?

I’m sure you can think of many more examples.
With all these multi-purpose applications,
how can anyone be offended when you use the word?
We say, use this unique, flexible word more often in your daily speech.
It will identify the quality of your character immediately.
Say it loudly, and proudly!
FUCK you! ”

-I believe this was George Carlin… I may be incorrect. Feel free to snarkily correct me 🙂

I am shocked and amazed that Sparky has not found gainful full-time employment in the IT industry and instead must resort to posting ads on CraigsList. He has such a pleasant demeanor and is so … articulate.

/sarcasm

Sparky, when you have to include a disclaimer in your ad stating that you are in fact a real person and not a joke, you may want to think about doing a little editing.

Mac: “Hi, I’m a fucking Mac.”
PC: “And, uh, I’m a PC. Say, Mac, why so angry?”
Mac: “Fuck you, PC.”
PC: “Look, there’s no need to get hostile. We’re both good platforms, we should be able to just get along.”
Mac: “You’re a fucking nerd, PC. You don’t deserve to share my oxygen.”
PC: “Hey, I have every right to be here just like you.”
Mac: “Like fuck you do. Look at you, I bet you haven’t even known the touch of a woman.”
PC: “I most certainly have. My mother used to kiss me goodnight when I was little.”
Mac: “Ooh, way to go, stud. I bet that impresses the ladies.”
PC: “As a matter of fact, women happen to like men who respect their mothers.”
Mac: “Oh, bullshit. Women respect men who pee standing up.”
PC: “Look, that’s unsanitary, have you seen the kind of germs found on toilet seats?”
Mac: “Probably still not as bad as the ones found on your mom.”
PC: “Your dad would disagree.”
Mac: “I swear to fucking God I will strangle you with my mock turtleneck.”
PC: “Oh, go ahead, tough guy, use violence, that solves everything, doesn’t it?”
Mac: “That’s it.” <lunges at PC>
PC: “MOM! MOOOOM! MAC IS BEATING ON ME AGAIN!”

For some reason that reminds me of a cheese commercial that is on the TV here. A person in a lab coat is checking the cheese to see if it has aged appropriately. If the cheese makes smart-ass, juvenile comments it has to go back to age some more. Send Sparky back!

I was going to make a comment about the fact that every sentence does not have to have the work “fuck” regardless of what many teenagers think, but I couldn’t find my Matt tags.

Artsy, that cheese commercial bothers me on many levels. First of all, the fact that the cheese is being cultivated by a guy in a lab coat does not entice me much. I prefer my cheese with more milk and less science. Secondly, the cheese is communicating with the lab coat guy despite having no discernable mouth which leads me to believe it’s telepathic which I do not find a desirable trait for cheese. Imagine the cutting room, “What are all the blades for sir?” Plus would the smaller pieces of cheese maintain some semblance of consciousness?

No, I don’t want any mutant science cheese, thanks. Well, maybe if it’s baked into a grilled cheese or a quesadilla…or a really good homemade macaroni and cheese.

We used to have a quintessential burger joint. Itty-bitty place. Plank-and-plywood seating. Sign on the condiment bar “This is NOT a Salad Bar.” Burgers available with all sorts of extras, mushrooms, bacon, etc.
They had a selection of cheeses to put on your burger.

They also called the orders back from the register, so the various combos were named. Cheddar cheese was a “smiley”; swiss cheese was just “swiss.” But, if you ordered Cheddar and swiss, that was a “mutant.”

If a person ordered a swiss and cheddar burger with mushrooms and bacon, the register would call out “Bacon-shroom mutant!”

I well remember the days, ever so long gone now ago, of spending $3.62 for my “bacon smiley” with fries and iced tea.

Or in local government. Our entire system shut down on Tuesday due to an accidental and unauthorised system update. IT were taken completely by surprise and are still clearing up the mess. The language was probably colourful (in my office, we just laughed. And then I went home, because I can literally do almost nothing without a computer).

“Fuckin’ Help Desk.”
*pause* “Uh. I forgot my password.”
“Fuck. Is that you, Davey? You do this every fuckin’ Monday. You get shitfaced on the fuckin’ weekend, and forget your fuckin’ password.”
“Yeah, it’s Davey. So can you reset my password?”
“I’ll fuckin’ reset it, Davey. It’s now FUCK YOU! Don’t change it, you should be able to fuckin’ remember that shit.”
“Thanks, mom.”

[Note from the Censor: Due to violations of public decency laws, I have edited this to be less objectionable. You’re welcome.]

“What the funk is wrong with this funking website? The funking internet is funking funked up, Mother Funker!” Zed screamed at the technician as the hapless creature walked through the door, “You better get this funking website working, funker, or I’m gonna downsize your whole funking apartment. Downsize it right in the funking [Aztec]!”

“HEY! It isn’t my fault your funking website is funked up! I told you not to funk with it, and you had to go all funking HTML funking ninja and change it all to funking comic sans. You’re lucky I don’t funking [open a bottle of soda] in your [malt shoppe]! Now get out of my funking way!”

The IT creature flopped himself scrundully down into Zed’s chair and began typing away. Zed suspected that it really didn’t know what it was doing and, like a monkey, it was simply hitting random keys as a way to sooth its small curious intellect. It disgusted Zed, but his basement was already full of bodies, and fitting another one was just out of the question… and he’d had enough sodomy already this week.

“Why the funk don’t you close your conditional PHP statements, ash-hole? You’ve got fifty funking statements here that aren’t doing ship because you can’t be bothered to fucking close them. What the funk?!”

Zed was tired of the meaningless noise, so he pulled his [banana] on the tech, “Just do your funking job, mother funker! I don’t give a flying [monkey] what you need to do to make it funking work, so just funking do it! Or do you want me to go and [give lots of chocolates and candy to] your wife!”

“Funk! Get that funking [banana] out of my face! And leave my wife out of it! I got this ship man, just be cool.”

“Don’t tell me to be funking cool! My ship is all funked up, and you’re here jerking me around about some fucking conditional statement!” Zed had had enough. He squeezed the [banana].

Later that evening Zed sat with a glass of whiskey staring at his website. He felt much better now, but his website was still a mess. Even so, the inconvenience was worth it. After all, he’d sated himself by [going to the movies and then a nice, extravagant dinner followed by a deep, meaningful conversation with] the tech’s corpse.

Correction: What I meant was; “What you are picturing as [banana] looking like when you read Taco’s story sounds very different than what I’m picturing [banana] looking like when I read it.” (I’m picturing a Ruger Mark II.)

Actually, I’m not really sure what I was picturing it as anymore, because I got way too analytical during the snarking. I at first pictured it as something similar to what you did, but then, you wouldn’t squeeze the [Ruger Mark II] to create a corpse from a live tech. Squeezing the ruger (another euphemism?) would only leave bruises on your palm.

So I thought about a semi-delicate container containing binary nerve gas, which Zed could have then “pulled” on the tech, put it in his face, and then created a corpse with by squeezing and combining the two parts. Of course, the fact that he was later “sitting with a glass of whiskey, staring at his website” leads one to believe that once he squoze, he dropped the shards leftover from the container, pulled out and self applied the atropine injector he had in his pocket, and then vented/aerated the nerve gas filled room, cleaned up the mess, and then still had the stamina to “sate himself by [going to the movies and then a nice, extravagant dinner followed by a deep, meaningful conversation with] the tech’s corpse.”

Me? Heard metallic clanking and donned full Saratoga and deployed the detection kit. Which showed positive for a bit of red plonk; hickory smoke; and marinated churchbird.
Set about disposing of those items (for the greater public good, naturally) until I could safely give the All Clear.
So, unless the detectors go off again, there’s no local NBC event.
If some nice people come to your door from USMS, that will be a local issue–I’m watching Green Wing on Hulu.

I had recently come across your bold, prosaic missive on this Craigslist site by way of a colleague of mine who appears to have passed it along as an attempt to elicit an expression of mirth from me. Instead however, I found myself intrigued by the means with which you couched the offering of your esteemed services. You see, it just so happens that I have found myself in a remarkably similar predicament such as you describe within your advertisement.

I have been running a medium-sized company which designs and manufactures custom dynamic flabial cump sleevers, which are designed to protect industrial workers in the pram bilching industry from torsional stresses associated with the manual orthoslamming process. Up until the last few years business has been good and sales of our top-end Embooder 4X model had been brisk. Margins were at the best they’d ever been and the board of directors were elated to have made the wise decision to invest in our industry-leading flabial cump sleevers.

But with the slump in the world market, our sales flagged and we were forced to brainstorm methods by which we could prop up our ailing business. The first and most obvious solution was to go global and design a website, preferably on the cheap, given the significant dip in the quarterly graph which left us with far less in liquid assets than was altogether comfortable. Thus, I made the decision to hire my second cousin — by all accounts a grotty little fellow who was never without a rash somewhere on his person, but whip smart and who knew a thing or two about computers.

Now, at the time it seemed like the product of his efforts were satisfactory. As neither I nor any of my colleagues were particularly familiar with these web sites and such electronic wibble-faffery, we generally took it on faith that it was done, and it was good, or at least functional. As it turned out however, it was full of problems with the webbing programmery things, the colours, the rude noises it made, even the grammar used on the site was, in the words of one of our larger customers, like it was written by someone who was in a bit of a hurry to have the box nails removed from his skull.

Needless to say, we were most displeased. Indeed, sales were down considerably more than they should have been. So it was with unexpected pleasure that I was directed to your advertisement, which I found refreshing and different enough to strike my fancy. No namby-pamby milquetoasty obsequiousness from you, is there? Just straight to the point in the most direct manner possible. I rather appreciate that, particularly because I happen to love being aggressively condescended to.

Thus it is that I am presently interested in acquiring your services to, as you so eloquently aver, de-fück my shït, because it has become abundantly clear that my shït is, indeed, properly fücked. If you would then be so kind as to respond with some sort of schedule of pricing I would be most grateful to you. If you would care to see what it is I intend for you to de-fück, you may have a butchers at http://www.farqharsonscustomdynamicflabialcumpsleeversllc.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

P.S. Should it come to pass that I need to bring you down here to work more closely, it might be helpful to note that I also like being aggressively abused in person.

After many hours of laborious work and consumption of FourLoco, the results of Sparky’s overhaul is complete and ready to be added proudly to his portfolio.

Hey, thanks for checking out Farqharson’s Custom Dynamic Motherfuckin’ Flabial Cump Sleevers, llc. This shit right here is top o’ the line, quality merch, I guarantee you. I haven’t a fucking clue what flabial cump sleevers are, I’m just the asshole doing this site, but I’m told these motherfuckers right here are the best fucking flabial cump sleevers you’ll ever see. They will sleeve the motherfucking shit out of your flabial cumps, no shit, you’ll be all like, “Whoa, holy shit, look at that motherfucker sleeve those cumps! It’s a goddamn sleeving miracle!” I guarantee nobody can sleeve your cumps like Farqharson can. This guy wrote the fucking book on flabial cump sleeving. So go ahead, click some fucking links and take a look at this crazy awesome shit and get sleeving those fucking cumps like a goddamn pro.”

I spent a few years as an offset printer, an industry in which one’s aptitude for swearing is measured during the interview process. If you can’t turn the air blue and wilt flowers, you’re not getting the job.

Despite that however, it was still better than working in the service and sales industries.

PS: No, this is not a fucking joke. Yes, I am a real fucking person. Send a fucking email to ###@###### for fuck’s sake and tell me about your fucked up technology problems.

Translation: This IS a joke, and was a dare from one of my buddies. However, I AM out of work and I do need a job. So if you actually do need IT assistance and are stupid enough to be impressed with this advertisement, please call me as I actually am a trained IT professional. Yes, I am desperate; I did this for a sandwich from Jimmy Johns.

All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy. All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.All fuck and no tact makes Sparky a droll boy.

My very first thought when I read this was of Michael Lewis’s Liar’s Poker, in which he discusses his experiences working on Wall Street; he coined the term “fuckspeak” to describe some of his colleagues who were apparently incapable of forming sentences without the word, and who also included it as many times as possible in each sentence spoken.

Looks like Sparky has covered all the bases in English grammar and speech: as a noun, as a verb, as an adjective, as a pronoun, as a synonym, as a homonym (I was thinking phuk as I was reading it), as a metaphor, as a simile, as an adverb, as a preposition, as an oxymoron, as hyperbole, as sarcasm, and as alliteration.

OK, I fucking looked at this and fucking looked at it again, and I can’t fucking for the fucking life of me figure out what the fuck you think is fucking wrong with it. What the fuck? The fucking spelling is fucking dead on. The fucking guy seems to fucking know what the fuck he’s talking about. There’s no stupid dumb-fuck picture of a fucking deer on a fucking swing set or the guy’s fucking cock or something. He’s not fucking offering his fucking service for fucking free and then saying fucking $100 or fucking OBO or some fucking stupid shit like that. There are no fucking bees or fucking red tables involved. Will someone fucking please fucking explain this to me for fuck’s sake?

Well, using cat math, I’ve discounted the rate from $1 per f-bomb down to the low price of $1.36 each. Then I took a 10% imaginary friends discount, adjusted for the currency exchange rate from USD to Web Dollars, added the 25% surcharge and came up with the nice round total of 157284.34€. Or a year’s worth of spinach toothpaste.

Well, having grown up with the rejoinder: “Hey, no swearing! There are Sailors present.”
One occasionally finds some one who will explain that, for the fluent, that’s just a “dare.” Meaning that varying usages, foreign equivalents, transliterations of foreign and pidgin and creole terms, and the like will need to be exercised and examined for admiration and comment.

Which can confuse more-recent additions to family when Great-Aunt Tara pipes in with “I heard this ferrying bombers into Odessa from Tehran . . . ”

By the same token, this is how I usually fix something that has ceased to function for no apparent reason. No magic smoke, no pretty sparkles, etc, just one day, doesn’t…

I “engage in some fuckwithery” (take it apart, look at every part suspiciously, wonder what this thingamajig does, and why the doohicky is screwed in the way it is, and then put it back together), and it suddenly works again!

My wife used to ask me “How’d you fix it?” or “What was wrong with it?”. Heh, like she’d understand, even if I knew to explain it to her. I’d start saying “Well, the capacitor…” and her eyes would glaze over and she’d interrupt with, “ok, nevermind”.

Fuckwithery haz been beddy beddy good to me… I just never knew what it was called! Thanks drmk (BBUY)!

OT – my husband’s got a job interview next week! Six months of virtually no work, applying for every suitable job going, and getting nothing, and now he’s got an interview for a job he really wants. The company’s based near where his mum lives, but are also looking to set up a regional office near where we are now, so if he gets it he’ll be well placed to be able to work from home (after 2 years of mostly working away).

So, positive vibes pleeeeease for next Wednesday morning – which I guess will be the middle of the night for most of you, but there we are.

I was going to say that with all the “fuck” in this ad, this guy isn’t very good at de-fucking at all. But then I started to think about the guy that cleans our furnace each year. He shows up at my house in clothes black with soot. He cleans all the gunk out, and leaves covered in more soot. Perhaps this poster has de-fucked so many websites, he’s just absorbed all that fuck, and is now so covered in it, he can’t even speak without it all spilling out. Now that’s a dedicated professional, and if I had a website, I would definitely consider hiring this guy to de-fuckify it.

But surely at some point he has to defuckify himself, doesn’t he? And how does he do that? And where does all the fuck go? I’m picturing something like John Coffee in The Green Mile; you can only take so much back before you’ve got to give it to someone.

It went a bit like this:
5:15 – work request comes in.
8:15 – I finally leave work. Note: my schedule has me leaving at 5:30 but I got the one where on a three-day-weekend they wanted the info tonight “or tomorrow morning” (wtf, whatev, like I’m gonna do that). The metaphorical landscape at work is littered with the craters and fallout from the gross or so of f-bombs I dropped all over the place while completing the work, particularly when the resource we were using was not returning the results we requested, despite following directions. We appear to have gotten it all in the end, however.
The upside? We had liquor immediately after (flask!!!!) and my coworkers stayed to help get it done (one will have to handle the weekend follow up if there is any, so being conversant with the topic (wtf is an auction-rate security? anyone? anyone? corey? bueller?) was necessary).
Bloody hell! If ever there was an f-bomb day where the post resembled an interior monologue, it was this one. Not proud, but at least the post is correctly written and punctuated for the most part.
*pours giant drink*
Carry on, that is all. As you were, then.

The hazy red anger that swam all day yesterday in my brain due to coirkers imagined and trumped up stupidity, did threaten to cave in my delicately balanced emotional ward this morning. Upon awaking and as is my habit, review YSaC, today’s post became the cornerstone of this Friday. I maintained civility and general pleasantness and been calmed by re/reading the incredibly facile and practically tactile word-crafting from such talented people that post at YSaC.

My favorite quote on the topic of swearing was my HS English teacher, who claimed she learned the quote from a nun who was her teacher: “It’s a damn filthy habit and it sounds like hell!” (Delivered with a wink.)

[Corey] for those who have never played Changeling: The Dreaming. Nockers were a fey kith with foul mouths and who could break/fix mechanical things by swearing them into submission. I played one who was a techie at a university. To this day I have Nocker mode, where suddenly I’ll start swearing like Sparky up there. Usually at my (or someone else’s) computer. [/Corey]

Boy: Woof! You sure gotta climb a lot of steps to get to this Capitol Building here in Washington. But I wonder who that sad little scrap of paper is?

I’m just a bill.
A fuckin’ lil bill.
And I’m fucked up here on Capitol Hill.
Well, it’s a fuckin’ long journey
To this big fuckin’city.
It’s a long, fuckin’ wait
With that fucked up committee,
But I know I’ll fuck up some one someday
At least I fuckin’ pray that I will,
But today I am still a fuckin’ bill.

Boy: Gee, Bill, you certainly have a lot of patience and courage.

Bill: Well I fuckin’ got this fuckin’ far. When I fuckin’ started, I wasn’t even a fuckin’ bill, I was just some dumbass motherfucker’s idea. Some folks back home decided they wanted a fuckin’ law passed, so they called their fuckin’ Congressman and he said, “Fuck you. you’re a dumbshit little fuck, but you’re right, we ought to fuck the law.” Then he sat down and wrote me out and introduced me to fuckin’ Congress. And I became a fuckin’ bill, and I’ll remain a fuckin’ bill until they decide to make me a fuckin’ law.

I’m just a bill.
A fuckin’ lil bill.
And I’m fucked up here on Capitol Hill.
Well, it’s a fuckin’ long journey
To this big fuckin’city.
It’s a long, fuckin’ wait
With that fucked up committee,
But I know I’ll fuck up some law someday
At least I fuckin’ pray that I will,
But today I am still a fuckin’ bill.

Boy: Listen to those congressmen arguing! Is all that discussion and debate about you?

Bill: Fuck Yeah, I’m one of the fuckin’ lucky ones. Most fuckin’ bills never even fuckin’ get this fuckin’ far. I hope they decide to report on me favourably, otherwise I may fuckin’ die.

Boy: Fuckin’ die?

Bill: Yeah, fuckin’ die, fuckin’ die in that dumbshit fucked up committee. Oooh, but it looks like I’m gonna fuckin’ live! Now I go to the House of Representatives, and they vote on me.

Boy: If they vote yes, what happens?

Bill: Then I go to the Senate and the whole fuckin’ thing starts all over again.

This got my funny bone going. And I have to say that this is a pretty heady group reading the blog and commenting, as well as writing. I almost wish I had a website that needed some de-fucking. Oh well. And what’s the Corey talk all about? That’s my name and based on some of the comments, I think maybe I should use an alias while here. So, writer’s of YsaC or whatever your abbreviation is, I’m going to spread the joy to my friends. You are very adequate in your commentary. The ads themselves are brilliant.

Ha. You guys are relentless! Poor guy was getting everything from Yakaav Smirnov to being patronized like a small child. Come on SJ, he was only trying to help you in your Acura purchasing pursuits. And I thought you guys were snow flakes. My bambi ears are ‘mint shell’ broken. Savage souls you are. The wolf pack banter is apparently half the fun at this place. How on earth did a craigslist blog get a higher standard of commenter than my college’s student body?

It’s funny, but I asked myself that same thing when I first started browsing the comments. But I think Drmk and Dan (BBUT) leading by example is what attracted people who could follow up the post snark with equally witty, smart comments. That’s why I stick around. There’s a better class of people here than 99.9% of the rest of the Internet.

(Okay, 99.8% of the rest of the Internet is porn, but that’s beside the point.)

Ha. Thanks for the smiley face there. Otherwise I may have been compelled to lash out with the fact check, just scouring the posts for factual and syntactical errors, disregarding all efforts of facetiousness from the comments and initiating my own scorched earth correction campaign. All in an effort to live up to the name. But since you made your intentions clear with said ;), I’ll just change my name and mix it up like the rest of you with witty, fun, and carefully directed rebuking thoughts.